Page 55 of Deception & Daylight
“Hungry?” I ask.
“I could eat.”
I quirk a brow, which gets an eye roll in return. Hopping down from the tailgate, I leave Mags in the bed of my truck, returning with a picnic basket in tow. I place it on the blue patchwork quilt I borrowed from the inn, pulling out a loaf of French bread, along with a bottle of wineand a small charcuterie board.
“Wow. This looks incredible.” As if on cue, her stomach rumbles, and her face flushes in the most adorable way. I’d much rather lay her out and find other ways to get that color into her cheeks. Instead, I lift a strawberry to her mouth and watch as she takes a bite. Her lips brush against my fingertips and she moans, sending a signal straight to my dick, and I have to stifle a groan as I adjust myself behind my jeans.
I watch as she quietly slathers Nutella on a piece of bread, scanning her face for any lingering signs from the attack that brought her here. The bruises have faded, but there’s still a sadness she’s trying but failing to hide. I know that look — the persistent, oppressive misery tucked just beneath the surface. Her smiles are forced, and in that moment I make it my mission to change that.
“You have a little something…” I gesture towards the corner of her mouth where there’s a smear of chocolate. Her tongue peeks out but doesn’t quite reach its target. “Here. Let me”
I bring my thumb to the spot, but before I can retreat, she takes it into her mouth and licks, moaning around my finger. “Careful, Wildcat. Don’t start something you don’t intend to finish.”
“I very much intend to finish. And if you’re a good boy, maybe you will, too.”Fuck, why is that hot? She might be the only woman in the world who could make me relinquish control.
“Eat. You’re gonna need the energy for later.”
She rolls her eyes, dramatically popping a grape into her mouth, followed by an exaggerated moan. I groan. “I can’t wait to turn your ass red.”
“Promises. Promises.”
Once we’re done with our meal, I top off our wine glasses and move us further into the truck bed, propping my back against a row of pillows I’ve lined up along the back of the cab. When Mags goes to sit beside me, I spread my legs and gesture for her to sit between them instead, wrapping my arms around her waist as she leans into my chest. Everything about having her in my arms just feels right; like nothing else matters — not the past, not what comes next — only this.
“I don’t think I can ever go back to Toronto,” she whispers.
”Do you miss it?”Please say no.
“I thought it was my home, but now I’m not so sure. Even before…” She hesitates, but she doesn’t have to say what she means by ‘before’. I cup her chin, turning her face so I can kiss her forehead, my lips lingering for just a moment until she turns her gaze back to the lake. “After Paige left, things shifted. Then that night happened and I couldn’t get away fast enough. Even if I can’t remember what happened,I know. If I go back, it might trigger those memories and I don’t want them. If that makes me a coward, then so be it.”
“You’re not a coward. You’re so fucking strong. Just because you don’t want to remember the horrible thing that happened to you doesn’t make you weak. I’m glad you can’t remember. I don’t want that for you.”
“But what if it could help them catch the man who did it?”
“It’s not worth your suffering.”
“You don't think that’s selfish?”
“We all have to make difficult choices to protect our peace. If you want to go back there, I’ll support you. If you want to send someone else to pack up your shit and bring it back here so you never have to step foot in the city again, I’ll support that, too. But it’s not selfish to want to protect yourself. You are not responsible for what that vile piece of shit does.”
Silence descends as my words linger in the air between us, leaving only the faint chirping of crickets beneath the intrusive buzzing of the emerging cicadas.
I stare out at the lake, watching the water lap against the shore while her fingers absently trace the scar along my forearm. Her touch is gentle, almost reverent. “Where’s your dad now?” Her voice is barely above a whisper, but the abrupt conversation shift is enough to momentarily knock me off my axis.
“Honestly? I don’t know. Last I heard, he was living it up somewhere outside of Nashville with his third wife, who’s young enough to be his daughter. I haven’t spoken to him in years. I suspect Matt has contact with him, though.”
“What happened between you two? Why do you hate each other so much?”
Exhaling a shuddering breath, I close my eyes and squeeze her to me, willing the contact to soothe my ragged nerves. I never want to outright lie to her, but there’s no way I can tell her everything, so I give her as close to the truth as I can manage without saying too much.
“After dad left, I took responsibility for Matt. I helped him graduate from high school, moved him into his college dorm, and made sure he had everything he needed. All while I was learning how to run the business without my dad. When Matty dropped out and moved back to Oak Ridge to work with me, he moved into my house. I thought we were getting closer as brothers, but he started behaving erratically. He was drinking too much, treating women like objects, and I didn’t agree with what he was doing, so I gave him an ultimatum — he could fess up to his bullshit and do better, or leave. I had hoped he would do the right thing, but he chose the latter and our relationship never recovered.”
She listens intently as I explain, her fingers absently tracing my scar, and when I finally finish, I search her face, but I don’t find the judgement I expect to see there. “How does Lucy feel about it?” Of course she’d worry about my mom. They have a connection I don’t think either of them ever expected. I’d even go so far as to say Maggie’s becoming the daughter my mom never had.
“It was hard for her at first. Still is, sometimes. But she knows it’s beyond saving at this point. I didn’t tell her everything that happened between us, but she knows Matty is too much like our father for me to want to reconnect with him.” Sometimes I wonder if I could forgive him, but then I remember the countless women he’s hurt in my name, and I think about the woman in my arms and I know I can’t undo the damage he’s caused. But I can and will do my best to earn her forgiveness.
As if reading my mind, she says, “Forgiveness needs to be earned, and you are not obligated to offer it if he refuses to acknowledge his mistakes and make the necessary changes to be a better person. From what I’ve seen, he hasn’t earned your forgiveness.”
“And have I earned yours?”
